


Summer of Love

by LateStarter58



Series: Sarah's Smutty Notebook [21]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Loss of Virginity, Plus-size girl, Young Tom, teenage love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 11:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17079713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Rachael has to work at the Garsington Opera Festival every year, waiting on the punters. Not all of them are particularly nice, but the job has its compensations...





	Summer of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt from a reader on Tumblr “I don’t know how you feel about plus-size love, but I kind of dig the idea of Tom, Loki, or Oakley going after a chubby girl…” and the little nugget that Tom let slip once about working as a waiter at an opera festival one summer. I assumed when I heard him say that it was at this one, as it used to be held near Oxford, and I have learned since that his Mum did actually help to run it. It still happens every summer, but it has moved location. One important note: the age of consent for both genders in the UK is 16.

**_“Why would anyone want to sleep with an ironing board? Or rest their head on it? I mean, that’s just nuts!”_ **

**_SUMMER 1998_ **

Rachael let out a great groan. “Really, Mum? Again?”

“Yes, dear. Uncle Tony is relying on you. You can show all the new ones the ropes. He says he’ll pay you more this year, as a supervisor. And we’ll be away at Karen’s in the middle of it, so you might as well keep busy.”

Rachael slumped in the armchair, feeling deflated. She had hoped that her little job at the garden centre would mean she could avoid Garsington this time around. She had been enjoying working in the nursery, with all the plants and the fresh smells. She had never felt she was cut out, psychologically or physically, for waitressing. And as for some of the customers! Arseholes. The sort she wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire, frankly. However, it seemed she was condemned to another few weeks of smiling politely while some ghastly git complained loudly about not being waited on hand and foot _quite promptly enough_.

_Oh well, all_ _good training for dealing with difficult patients once I finish med school…_

Nineteen and home from her course for the summer – not mention desperate for cash - she was stuck with it. Her uncle’s catering firm got the job every summer and it could be fun, some of the time. Most of the waiting staff tended to be students or sixth-formers and there was usually good camaraderie. So, two weeks later she was gathering the newbies together in the marquee for a pep talk before the opening night of the Garsington Opera Festival in rural Oxfordshire. She surveyed the group: there was the usual mix of girls, some tiny and pretty with shiny hair, others more in her camp of the plain and size 16-plus, as well as everything in between. On the male team they were all shapes and sizes too: tall spotty boys, some wider types who looked like rugger-buggers, a few of the more effete variety, and then there was _him._

“OK guys, have any of you had any experience at this kind of thing?” A few tentative hands lifted above waist height. Not _his_ , she noted. “Well, not to worry, the main thing to remember is that the food has to served in plenty of time for the customers to get to the show, so speed is needed, but without them feeling you are hurrying them.” Looks were exchanged. “Yes, I know, but just watch what the old hands do, you’ll get it. And don’t be surprised if some people are rude. It happens. Try not to take it personally; just smile sweetly and carry on.” Several of her audience looked like startled deer. “If in doubt, ask me or one of the others. Or Tony, in a pinch.”

If only she had taken her own advice.

She watched as the group went off to their various stations. He – _Tom_ , his name was – was on her team. At Eton, her uncle had said, but a nice lad. His mum was something to do with the festival apparently, and was personally acquainted with the family that started the festival and owned the Hall: the Ingrams.

_Posh boy, then. Moneyed family, no doubt._

_But oh that hair and those legs. Oh yum._

There was always at least one: one boy that Rachael liked to look at, it had been that way in the three previous years she had worked the Garsington; it passed the time. But the boys rarely looked back. She had no illusions; his kind rarely strayed far from home, and there was no shortage of pretty, thin, posh girls for them. She looked down at the straining buttons on her white cotton blouse, and the swell of her belly in the too-tight pencil skirt.

_He’s out of my league, of course, and too young if he’s still at school. But still, a cat can look at a king._

****

The Saturdays were always the worst. More guests, more noise, more of the richer, louder people who had high, fine dining expectations of the young and relatively untrained waiting staff. As Rachael parked her car that Saturday she saw him – _Tom_ \- getting out of a modest car, waving goodbye to someone – his mum, probably. He had a bag with him, and then she remembered. There was a party at one of the girl’s houses tonight – Ophelia’s. Rachael had hesitated, because her parents were away but in the end she had declined, because it was obvious she had only been invited out of politeness. She’d rather be at home alone with a book than alone and bored in a corner of a strange house. As she watched, Tom saw her and waved, smiling so brightly he made the overcast day seem like the sunniest ever. She felt her heart lurch.

_He likes me_

_Stop it. You know he does. As a person. He likes EVERYONE. That’s him._

The day went exactly as she had expected. It was hot, but damp, with little outbreaks of drizzle that made life unpleasant as it was wet underfoot and the tents were filled up with moaning people. But even Rachael’s naturally gloomy personality could not have predicted how nasty things would turn in the pre-performance dinner service. There was one table causing problems from the moment they arrived. They didn’t like where they had been placed; they wanted different wine to that which they had pre-ordered; several of them had changed their minds about the menu and were accommodated without comment. But then the inevitable: if you have a moany table, you can guarantee it will be one where the accident happens.

Jeremy, one of the ganglier, spottier lads almost dropped a tray. In his attempts to save it, he barged into Rachael, who was carrying a full tray herself. She spilled the contents onto two of the party who had been creating all the difficulties and there was an explosion of rage from one of them.

“ **YOU STUPID CLUMSY FAT BITCH!!! YOU’VE RUINED MY SUIT!! I DEMAND TO SEE WHOEVER IS IN CHARGE OF THIS MICKEY MOUSE OPERATION!!!!”**

The entire marquee was watching and could not fail to hear what the man said. Rachael felt as if her face would burn off; it felt like molten lava. She did her best to clear up the mess, and tried to tell the raging bull that they would pay any cleaning bills, but he just kept on yelling, insulting her and complaining. At full volume. Eventually Uncle Tony came and managed to placate the man. Rachael continued with her work and of course there was no question of her being sacked, as the customer had demanded so loudly. Her mother’s big brother could recognise a bully when he saw one, and it was obviously not her fault anyway.

But the humiliation was unavoidable and excruciating. Once the worst of the rush was over, Tony sent her to have a break, and she made her way into the copse just behind the catering area. She found a dry mound covered with bindweed and honeysuckle and sat down. Away from the bustle, it all bubbled out of her and she slumped over her knees, sobbing.

“Rachael? Are you OK?”

_Not him. Not now_

She could not lift her head and look into that beautiful clear, angelic face.

“I heard about the arsehole.” He sat down beside her on the bank. “You’re not letting him get to you, are you?” He reached for her hand. Still she did not lift her head, not wanting to let him see her bedraggled, tear-stained face. He squeezed her hand lightly. “Rachel?” His voice was deep but soft; she wanted to hear it forever.

“He shouted so loudly, Tom. He said such horrible… Everyone was staring.”

An arm was wrapped around her and she felt herself being pulled against a slim, firm torso. “Staring at him, darling. And a bit at you, but only because you are so pretty.”

She could not contain the snort of derision. She was not used to compliments about her appearance, only snide remarks or outright insults.

“Hey! Don’t take the piss! I mean it.”

She looked up at his face, so close to hers she could feel his warm breath and smell his skin. He dabbed at her tears with his handkerchief, gently repairing the damage. His eyes were fixed on hers, but occasionally flicking to look at her lips. Before she could process this bizarre turn of events, his mouth was pressed against hers. She softened herself against him, reaching up and running her fingers into his soft curls. They felt exactly how she had imagined they would. He deepened the kiss, running his hot tongue along her lips, seeking entrance. She moaned and allowed him in. He echoed her.

After a minute they broke for a draught of oxygen. She looked cautiously at him, panting lightly as he was while they rested, forehead to forehead. He took a deep breath.

“You have no idea how long, Rachael…”

“Don’t.” She stood up and turned away, taking a few steps along the little path that led deeper into the wood. She heard him following.

“But Rachael, what’s wrong? I’m sorry; did I do something wrong? Do you have a boyfriend?”

That last question stopped her in her tracks. “No. Of course not.”

“What do you mean, ‘of course not’?” She felt him close behind her and then fingertips brushed her arm. “What is it, Rachael? Please?”

She turned around and looked at him. He was tall, not far off six feet already, and still only 17. He was thin, but muscled, with strong legs she had seen through his tight black work trousers, and they led – after miles - to an arse to _DIE FOR_. His handsome face, with blue eyes and an almost permanent happy smile was topped with a cloud of blond curls.

She looked down at her own body, then spread her arms as if to say: ‘ _You_ want _this_?’ She shook her head and turned away, fresh tears welling up as she continued away from the noise and hassle of the Festival and deeper towards the quiet compensations of nature.

“Stop, Rachael. Please!”

“It’s OK, Tom, really. I’m OK now. I’m used to it, I’ve always been fat and people have always told me. You are a lovely guy, but you don’t need to stay here with me. Go and find one of the pretty girls.”

“I’m with the prettiest.” He caught up with her again and tugged gently on her arm until she was facing him. “And the brightest. And the funniest.” He lowered his gaze, taking in the generous swell of her breasts and the fullness of her hips and thighs. His voice dropped an octave. “And the sexiest.”

‘But-“

He ended the debate by kissing her again.  This time she gave in. The little voice in her head kept saying that it was a wind-up, that he was only going to hurt her more, but she ignored it. Boys had done that before – asked her out for a bet, that sort of thing, but Tom was not like that. Nothing she had seen made her believe he was like that.

They were hidden from the world beyond the trees now, from the other catering staff, from the marquees and the crowds and the stage and the orchestra. They could hear the musicians tuning up but it was faint and muffled. Tom pressed her between a tree and his firm body, and began to undo the buttons on her blouse. He was moaning loudly into her mouth and the sound of it was driving her mad. His head moved down and his lips settled on the tops of her breasts as they swelled out of her bra – she really needed to get a bigger one – and she pressed his head against her.  Then she realised what might happen.

“Please Tom, stop.”

He looked up, disappointment writ large on his handsome face. “What’s wrong? Have I-?”

“Not here. Please.”

He took a shuddering breath. “Then where?” His blue eyes were fixed firmly on hers, the gaze so intense she felt herself blushing.

_He means it_

“If… if you want to, we could… my parents are away.” She could not believe what she was saying to him. She was asking him to come to her house and sleep with her.

To take her virginity.

Tom nodded vigorously and to judge from the hard rod she felt pressing into her belly, he was definitely keen. They were interrupted by the sound of Margaret, one of the older ladies calling them back to help with setting up the interval drinks.

By the time all the glasses were washed and the tablecloths and napkins all bagged and ready for the laundry, Rachael was very nervous indeed. Tom had kept as close to her as he could be since they had returned from their assignation in the copse, and the looks he had been giving her were unmistakeably hungry. Several of her fellow waitresses had nudged her, and a few had whispered encouragements. He was not hiding his feelings, and that was more precious than she could have imagined.

As they were gathering their belongings prior to leaving, she pulled him aside to speak quietly. “Better be subtle about this. I don’t want Uncle Tony seeing – he knows Mum and Dad are away and he might… Well, anyway, it’s awkward, right?”

Tom blushed wildly – it was endearing – and nodded. “Got it. But how?”

She pointed to his overnight bag. “Give me that. You start off down towards the entrance. I’ll pick you up around the corner. OK?”

*****

Rachael and her parents lived in a small, sleepy village about ten miles away. Tom had folded himself into her rather old, fairly tatty Renault Clio with difficulty, but then spent the journey teasing the bare skin just above her knee (she had to pull her skirt up to drive safely). When she dared, a quick glance to her left would offer a view of two scorching-hot eyes burning into her.

_He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s obviously more experienced than I am_

Fortunately, there were high laurel hedges around the modest house, so nosy neighbours could not see how, when she had parked the car and got out, a lanky young man pressed Rachael up against the driver’s door and kissed her passionately. No prying eyes were able to spot how his large hands ran up her legs under her skirt and squeezed the soft flesh of her bottom.

“Tom, oh, please, Tom, hold on...” She could hardly breathe. His kisses were hot and sexy and she wanted him so much.

“Door key?” he gasped.

“Here, but please, just a moment. I should tell you…”

He had been about to head for the porch but stopped in mid-turn. He looked into her face, which was illuminated by the streetlamp. “What is it, darling? Have you changed your mi-“

“No!” she responded, rather too loudly. She took a calming breath. He needed to know. It was embarrassing, but she had to say it. “I’ve never… this is my… first time.” She let out the remaining breath in rush, but looked down, averting her eyes from his.

“Oh wow, Rache. Really? Wow…” He seemed stunned.

“I can take you to Ophelia’s if you prefer. I know this is a bit-“

“What? Why would I want to go there?” Now it was his turn to speak a little too stridently. He softened his tone when he saw her eyes widen in shock. “Look, Rachael, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here. I only meant that, well… this is such a big deal. Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything, Tom. Never.”

He kissed her again, moaning softly as they pressed into one another. He ran his hands over her back and bottom again. “Oh Rache, you’re so lovely.”

She extracted an arm and managed to get to the door to unlock it. He stayed wrapped around her, his lips exploring as she guided them upstairs to her room. There seemed no point on pretending they were there for anything else.

As they reached the side of her bed Rachael froze. This was the part she balked at: undressing. A hundred sneering looks from schoolmates in the changing-rooms; the comments made by the doctor who did her medical exam before uni; the supposedly well-meant remarks that aunts and cousins made about diets…

“Rachael, please. I need to see your boobs…” Tom was panting now, as if he had run a long way. His eyes were intense and he looked flushed and desperate. Swallowing her nerves she allowed him to undo her buttons again, this time all the way. He brushed his lips over the full flesh of her breasts as it overflowed from her bra. His hands caressed her back on the way to the strap, which he undid with practised ease.

_I knew he was no virgin. Christ_

Then all coherent thought departed her as Tom buried himself in her bosom. He licked, he nibbled and he sucked. He teased, he squeezed, he stroked and he poked. Rachael was amazed how good his mouth and hands felt on her, how beautiful it was to be worshipped by someone so caring and clearly attracted to her. She tugged at his shirt and he whipped it off over his own head in a trice. She could see his erection straining in his trousers, but he continued to kiss and suck on her, just every now and then pressing his crotch against her leg and moaning.

“Please, Tom.”

“Are you ready?”

She looked steadily at him. “I don’t really know. I mean, I’ve never...” She saw his eyes roll back as he pulled at her skirt. She was sitting on the edge of her bed now, so she raised herself up to allow it to fall. His fingers went to her knickers and she gasped at his touch.

“Oh, sorry!”

“It’s OK. It’s just…it’s all new to me.”

“Nobody ever even…? Jeez, _what idiots!”_ She saw his jaw tighten as his fingertips ran over the cotton. His voice lowered again. “Rachael…you’re soaking. I think that means you’re ready.”

Any fears she had were washed away by the look in Tom’s eyes as she finished undressing. That, and the sight of his body as he removed his own clothes in such a rush he nearly toppled over.

“Lie back, love.” Finally bare, he lay down beside her on the narrow bed. He kissed the side of her head, then her cheek, slowly making his way to her lips. His soft hands were gliding over the rise and fall of her flesh. He was so gentle and kind she could not believe her luck. She had caught a glimpse of his penis before he joined her and she dare not look again; to her untrained eyes it appeared enormous. No amount of physiology and anatomy lessons had prepared her for this. She was not innocent by any means: she knew all the theory, but this was something else altogether.

“Oh!” His hand had reached her mound, now bare to his questing touch. He teased and pressed and she arched her back to him.

“Is that good? Tell me what you like, darling…”

“You, this, yes…oh, Tom, that…yes…YES.”

It was not her first orgasm. Not by any means. But it was the best, because she was lying next to the most attractive boy she had ever met and his nimble fingers had given it to her. His mouth found hers as she writhed beside him and she felt him thrust a little against her hip. She opened her eyes to see him smiling serenely, but his jaw was tight.

“Was that good, darling?”

“Oh Tom, it was… incredible.”

He kissed her again, softly at first, but soon the passion began to rebuild and she knew the moment was close. “Tom, do you have something?”

“I do, yes.” He laughed, an embarrassed, funny, sniggering sound. “I’m a teenage boy. Of course I do.” He slid off the bed and reached for the pocket of his trousers. Rachael was oddly fascinated by the process, which seemed pretty routine to Tom.

_He’s only 17…but then, he’s so gorgeous_

She watched as he sat down beside her. His erection was indeed large, but also beautiful. She had no idea that was possible. He noticed her looking and smiled shyly. He held out the condom to her, which he had unwrapped already. “Would you like to?”

“Show me?” She had only the most vague idea and hated the thought of hurting him. She kept shifting her gaze from his face to his hands as he slid it over himself, his eyes closing as he fought for control. Then he was ready and his hand reached for hers and guided it to his arousal.

“Yes, that’s right. Oh, Rache, please, can I…?”

She nodded and lay back. The moment had come at last. She, _fat Rachael_ , the butt of all the popular girls’ jokes at school, the _unkissable_ , definitely the _unfuckable,_ was here with this beautiful boy. She looked at him as he moved between her legs. “Why? Why me, Tom? Why not Ophelia, or one of those others?”

He was breathless, staring at her sex, then at her boobs, holding himself on shaking arms. “Those skinny bints? No way! I want _you_ , Rache. YOU.”

Then the talking stopped for a while. She guided him into her wetness, and did her best to relax. He kissed her mouth as he eased inside her gently, slowly, carefully but relentlessly. He teased her tongue with his to distract her, but it only hurt for a moment; just a brief burning and stretching sensation and then the pleasure, the deep, warm, all-encompassing pleasure more than made up for that. She ran her hands over his back and grasped his tight round arse as he began to move. It was better than she might have dreamed, had she allowed herself to even imagine this. It seemed to go on for ages, the rhythmic pounding of his pelvis against hers; almost but not quite painful, and feeling so good and so right that she understood why sex ruled the world. Then his movements became ragged and he pushed deeper and harder into her as his breath came out in a long moaning cry.

He stayed on top of her for a little while, resting his head on the soft pillows of her large breasts, his lips kissing and tugging from time to time. Then he withdrew from her before he began to harden again, dealing with the condom and then returning to bed.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you…?” She shook her head. “Thank you for allowing me that great honour, Rachael.” He kissed the top of her head as she snuggled against him.

She laughed softly. “I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with offers, Tom. But I would have turned them all down anyway, in favour of you.” She looked up into his golden face. He made her think of Eros in Piccadilly Circus; he was her God of Love, that’s for sure. “I still don’t understand it, but I’ll shut up about it.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s quite simple. I like a round, comfy girl. One like you, with a good mind, a kind heart and beautiful body I can cuddle. Why would anyone want to sleep with an ironing board? Or rest their head on it? I mean, that’s just nuts!”


End file.
